


This is How We Drown

by Zayrastriel



Series: The Drowning 'verse [14]
Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Character Death, F/F, F/M, Zombie Apocalypse, climax, major angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:02:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how we drown; in shame and despair, slow and aching.<br/>This is how the world ends; with a bang.<br/>And it restarts in a whimper, pained and silent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is How We Drown

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone for being in this. I hope I didn't mutilate you guys too much xx

_“It’s almost ready, isn’t it?”_

_“Look, I don’t think-“_

_“Alice, answer the question.”_

_“…”_

_“Ayesha?”_

_“…It is.” (Quietly, reluctant because Alice is radiating hurt and quiet reluctance from her pores.)_

_“Alright.”_

_“Will-“_

_“There’s no choice.”_

_“There’s always a choice.” (That’s in sync, because it’s true.  There’s always a choice.)_

_(Not always a good one, but so it goes.)_

 

~

 

**_4 th April 2018, London (England), 21:00 AEST (12:00 local time) – Fiona_ **

Fiona’s getting dressed when the phone rings, pulling on two singlets at once because England is _freezing_ , absolutely _freezing_.  Her familiar ringtone sounds out from somewhere in her bag and she has to sift through piles of paper and endless, hard-to-navigate pockets before she pulls it out on the last ring, pressing _answer_ and shoving it to her ear without checking the screen as she tugs down her singlets.

“Hello?”

“ _Hey, Fio_!”

Alice is worried.

And upset, too, with just the slightest edge of hysteria to her voice.  Two years ago, Fiona wouldn’t have been able to tell – would never have known.

But it’s not two years ago anymore, and this isn’t a group dinner at Pancakes, Darling Harbour.  Not anymore.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, with no bother for a preamble as she sits herself down on the edge of her bed, pulling a piece of paper towards her in case she needs to make notes.

There’s a slight pause, and Fiona knows she’s right; even before the obvious quiver in Alice’s voice as she replies, “ _nothing’s wrong_!”

And that’s not true, it’s so obviously not true she wants to laugh.

Fiona would press her – wants to, even.  But Alice called for a reason, she knows.  She doesn’t need to ask. 

So she waits, holding the phone to her ear with one hand while she idly doodles on a piece of paper.  It’s a skeleton, it turns out; but a skeleton with a normal human head.  It’s female, with shoulder-length wavy hair and a skinny, small face. 

It takes her till Alice sighs a heavy breath of capitulation to realise that it’s her own face she’s drawing, drawn and hollowed.  She’s still staring at it as Alice says, heavily, “ _they’ve finished making the toxin, and they’re planning on releasing it next week._ ”

The first thing she thinks is _thank God_ , followed swiftly by _Alyce, what about Alyce_?

Fiona doesn’t voice the first; instead bites her lip and closes her eyes (though the face she drew is still etched into the underside of her eyelids) and asks softly, “what about Alyce?”

There’s another sigh on the other end of the phone; weary and drained.  “ _The thing is, there’s a cure.  And I want to tell her what it is._ ”

Another mix of reactions; a sinking feeling of despair-worry in her stomach and the slightest flutter of relief.  _We’re not all that bad_ , she thinks _, we don’t all just want death_.  “Are you going to?”

“ _If I do, she’ll probably tell them all.  Which would, you know, make the whole thing sort of redundant._ ”

“And if you don’t.”  That’s a statement in itself, and there’s no need to finish it.  They both know what that means. 

_All it takes for evil to succeed is for bad men to do nothing._

“ _I need to_ -“ Alice says abruptly, then cuts off.  “ _I need to make a phone call_.”

She’s hung up before Fiona can say anything – anything at all, like _goodbye_ or _good luck_ or _thank you_.

~

 

**_5 rd April 2018, Sydney (Australia), 18:00 AEST – Alyce_ **

They released Alyce from custody a month after the thing in the Blue Mountains.  Which is good because upbringing was starting to kick in and she was really starting to freak out about the whole _shoot I am in prison_ thing.  Her parents would _not_ have liked that.

Come to think of it, of course, they probably wouldn’t have liked being dead either.

…Okay, that’s depressing.

In any case, she sort of ends up slinking back into her sharehouse.  Her friends hold a small, quiet party for her and very carefully refrain from asking her anything about her time in prison.

She keeps her head down, for the next couple of months.  Just keeps quiet, stays at home watching TV and working part-time at a bookstore around the corner.  It’s weird – all the infrastructure and commerce and stuff is still going, like nothing really happened.  Like they didn’t all just sort of switch species nearly two years ago.

And that works fine, just fine – right up until she gets the call, while she’s sitting in her room watching repeats of _Sherlock_ off of her portable hard drive.

It’s Alice, and Alyce hangs up without saying a word.

Half an hour later, she gets another call – this time, from a blocked number.

“Hey?”

“ _Hey, Alyce_ -“

She gets the _end call_ button so quickly she cracks the screen very slightly.  Fricking stupid enhanced zombie skills.

There’s nothing till two hours later, when she’s almost at the end of _The Reichenbach Fall_.  As John watches Sherlock up on the rooftop, Alyce absent-mindedly pauses the file mid-sentence, leaving John staring at Sherlock with terror in his eyes while she picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“ _Alyce, isn’t it?”_

The voice is unfamiliar, and so there’s a moment of tentative suspicion before Alyce figures _what the hell?_ – and answers.  “Yeah.  Who is this?”

“ _My name is Ayesha, and before you hang up I need to tell you something._ ”

“…You’re one of Alice’s friends, aren’t you?”

“ _Give me one sentence.  Just one sentence; you can hang up after that if you don’t want to hear anything else._ ”

It seems fair enough; or at least, she’s not quite reached the point of rudeness where she’d just hang up on someone she hasn’t talked to enough to actually know.  “Fine.”

“ _They’re releasing a toxin next week that’s going to kill all of you.  Alice wants to tell you what the antidote is.”_

She hangs up without a word.

(And then calls back thirty seconds later.)

 

~

 

**_5 h April 2018, London (England), 18:00 AEST (09:00 local time) – William_ **

When they’re fighting, Will feels like they’re always fighting – has to struggle to remember what it’s like to not be constantly butting heads with his stubborn-as-fuck girlfriend.  Truth be told, they don’t actually fight that much.

But God, Will thought this was over when his father died.

“It’s done, Raine,” Will says wearily, resisting as strongly as possible a rather intense urge to rub at his forehead, perhaps stave away the oncoming headache.  “It’s happening in four days.”

“ _Four days_ ,” she repeats flatly.

Suddenly, she frowns.  Leans forwards, and then collapses back into her seat.  She flings one arm out, and if the screen were wide enough he thinks he might see a fist clenched tight.  “ _On my_ birthday?!”

Oh God.  Will had completely forgotten.  He’d set a reminder on his phone for the 8th as soon as he found out, and then completely forgotten about it.  “I…I…”

And then, thank any deity that may or may not exist, the phone rings.  Briefly, Will considers putting Raine on hold – but he never does that, has never done that, and he’s still nowhere near annoyed enough to do that.

“One moment, please,” he says as politely as he can while trying to avoid the abject gratefulness he feels.  Raine opens her mouth as if to say something; but shuts it again at the last moment, and slumps slightly before nodding.  One hand reaches up to toy with one of the pigtails she’s taken to tying her hair in.

Just before Will lifts the phone to his ear, he’s struck suddenly with a memory of that time he actually got to meet her; the way the straight, then-short strands of hair felt when he brushed his hand over it.

 _Eurgh_.  He flicks his left hand as he uses his right to grasp the phone.  The gesture is meant to…he doesn’t know, flick away the negativity.  The memories.  The wistfulness of _not-knowing-anything_.  It doesn’t particularly work.

“What is it, Andrew?” he asks, keeping his gaze diverted from Raine. 

“ _I’m going to transfer someone over to you, sir.  A group of survivors in France.  Some French, a couple of German refugees._ ”

“But I thought-“

“ _Yes, sir.  But it turns out they did._ ”

“North of France?”

“ _Calais_.”

“I suppose they could have,” Will muses.  He glances over at Raine, who’s looking a mixture of delighted and confused.  “But – winter’s fine, but how did they survive last summer?“

“ _I would assume a healthy mix of luck and skill.  Not wanting to be rude, I decided not to pose them the question._ ”

“Was that a-  I didn’t mean to- what I meant was- oh, _shut up_ , Raine,” he snaps at the screen.

She smirks at him.  “Sorry,” she replies with not an iota of sincerity.

“ _…In any case – they want to cross the Channel, they say, and before summer gets too warm._   _I’m putting them through now.”_

“Fair enough,” Will says thoughtfully – though if everything works the way it’s meant to, summer won’t be a problem this time.  “Put them through,” he replies, placing the phone down on the desk before looking back at the screen.

Raine’s face diminishes, and half the screen turns to static that grates at Will’s ears.  From the look of displeasure twisting Raine’s expression, she seems to agree with him.  “Eww,” she grimaces.

“Eloquent but true.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, and he very carefully doesn’t respond.

Slowly, the static resolves itself into a blurry image.  “ _Salut_!” says what looks like it might have been a face, before the internet finished with it.  “ _Je parle a Londres?_ ”

“Uh.”

“ _What’s wrong_?” Raine asks quietly, exaggeratedly mouthing the words as though he’s deaf.

He shrugs helplessly.  “I don’t speak French.”

“You live in England.”

“Exactly.  _English_.”

“ _Ah! Anglais – you uh, you speak, uh, English, n’est-ce pas_?” the staticky voice says with an even more staticky disapproving shake of the head.

“Um.  Oui?”

“ _D’accord, d’accord…Jesse!_ _Jesse !  Viens parler !_ ”

There’s a clutter of stuff at the other end of the camera and Will leans back with a sigh.  He does a lot of leaning back, and a lot of sighing.  He rather thinks he could make a profession of it, to be honest. 

He looks to Raine, hoping for some sympathy in the looking-sighing department.

Instead, he gets _stunned_ staring right back at him; wide-eyed and so still he almost worries the tech is lagging. 

“What’s wrong?” Will asks with a certain amount of alarm – only amplified more when she swallows heavily.  “Raine?  Raine, sweetheart?”

She shakes her head.  “Nothing.  Nothing.  There’s got to be a million Jesse’s who speak English.  And moved to Germany, and-“

She’s cut off as the shuffling on the other side stops suddenly, and a deep bass-baritone voice speaks out to say –

 

~

 

**_5 th April, United Nations Research Facility (Antarctica), 19:30 AEST (17:30 local time) – Ayesha_ **

The thing is, Alice isn’t the only one who’s expressed uncertainty over the Plan.  As far as expression goes, she’s actually been fairly mild about it.

Human NATO thinks that everyone here is working together to wipe out the – _pestilence_ , was that the word Hilary Clinton used? – of the zombies.  They think the zombie governments can’t possibly be organised to formulate a defence of some kind. 

That’s true enough.  They might have Africa, India, and most of Australasia and South America; but there are no zombies in the British Isles anymore, most of Northern Europe is secured, and most of the North American continent is safe.  China would have been a problem, but it’s perfectly split either way, engaged in a very special form of civil war that they’ve silently agreed not to interfere with.

And of course, Antarctica.

There shouldn’t be a problem, NATO seems to think.

But it’s there. How could it not, when too many of her colleagues have manage to regain contact with their families?  Ayesha has no family, and Alice – Alice won’t talk about her family, and Ayesha won’t ask.

But there’s a difference between thinking dubiousness and acting on it.  And the fact remains that Alice isn’t just talking about it.  She’s doing it.

And so – _are you sure this is a good idea?_ Ayesha wants to ask – but now that Alyce has actually agreed to listen to them, the phone’s on loudspeaker as Alice talks.

So she writes it down instead, carefully printing each letter because Alice always complains about her handwriting.

“Alice,” she whispers, and the shorter girl looks her way.  Ayesha gesticulates at the piece of rumpled scrap paper.  Obediently, Alice reads it – only to look up immediately and shoot a flat look in Ayesha’s direction.

Ayesha rolls her eyes.  _You don’t know who she’ll tell_ , is what she writes on the other side of the paper.  This time, Alice hesitates.  And then shrugs.

Before Ayesha can find another piece of paper to write a scathing reprimand of Alice’s apparent indifference, however, Alyce’s voice comes through the speakers.  It cracks very slightly – and not, Ayesha doesn’t doubt, because of the technology.

“ _Why are you telling me this_?”

Expectantly, she looks towards Alice.  She’s about as curious as Alyce is, really.  Not why – as far as Ayesha can tell, the two of them are friends.  But _why_ – _why_ sabotage what they’ve been working towards for over a year?  Why risk wasting everything?

“Because.  Because you deserve a chance too.”

 

~

 

**_5 th April 2018, the Netherlands, 19:30 AEST (11:30 local time) – Raine_ **

“ _Hi, this is Jesse.  Am I talking to London_?”

The thing is, Raine isn’t actually really paying attention to what’s going on at Will’s end until this point.  She’s too busy trying not to freak out/succumb to the inevitable paranoia that _oh my god we’re so different with each other gah relationship issues blah_ , after all.  The important stuff.

So it takes her a long moment to realise just what strikes her as odd about that voice. 

She _knows it_.

“Wait a minute…” she says slowly, and Will breaks off mid-sentence (not that she has any idea of what he was actually saying) to glance over at what she presumes is her half of the screen. 

“ _Raine?  Is something wrong?_ ”

“ _Wait a minute.  Did you just say ‘Raine’_?” the other person interrupts – and yes, yes, she _does_ know that voice.  It’s been two years and a zombie apocalypse but it’s not the easiest voice to forget.

“ _Jesse_?!” she exclaims.

“ _Wait – you two_ know _each other_?”

Will sounds about as incredulous as she feels.  “ _Seriously, Raine, is it just me or is it a serious coincidence that you know like half the people left on the planet_?”

“Well, I’m not complaining,” she retorts.

“ _Sorry, I’m trying to get past the – fucking hell, you’re_ alive?”

“ _I don’t even need to be here_ ,” Will mutters.

Raine sticks her tongue out at him, feeling all of a sudden youthful and energetic and _alive_.  Youthful, mostly because she sort of is.  But the other things too.  “Yeah – me, Lia and Ara somehow ended up in the perfect place for a zombie apocalypse,” she says.  “We’re fine.”

“ _Ara – she’s alright_?”

 _Oh.  Yeah.  That._ “Yeah.  Wanna talk to her?  Actually, you know what, I’ll be back in a second.  Don’t die or anything while I’m gone.”

“ _Oh, I’ll endeavour not to_ ,” Jesse says with what she thinks is totally an inordinate amount of sardonic sarcasm. 

“ _While this reunion is lovely,_ ” Will interrupts _,_ “ _we do have things to talk about.”_

It’s the Look.  The _I am older than you and actually trained in this shit_ and wow, she thought he’d gotten over this by now – hoped he might have, because massive turnoff right there.

Raine rolls her eyes and then sticks out her tongue at him again.  “Yeah, yeah, going.”

Happy or not, it still stings a little that Will waits till she’s closed the door to start speaking.  But – _not relevant.  Positive energy, Raine.  Positive energy_.

 _Positive energy_ lasts about half an hour into the search for Ara, till she turns the corner and _barely_ avoids walking into Tom. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” Tom says automatically, because the guy is basically the walking personification of politeness.

“All good, Hiddles, ” she replies with a dismissive wave of the hand and a half-smile when he flinches at her use of the nickname.  “Do you know where Ara is?”

“Ara…” He frowns.  “Hunting, I believe.”

And… _eurgh_.  Despite the one hundred and one arguments they’ve had about this, despite the fact that Raine knows it’s not she who gets to choose – it still annoys the fuck out of her, what Ara does.  But it’s not like she can wrestle the bow from her.  And even though Lia, Tom and Tristan agree with her – Lia always wants to make peace, Tom’s too polite, and Tristan is…well, sort of a pushover when push comes to shove.

Or whatever.

In any case, Raine ends up meandering back to the media room.  She makes a huge show of knocking at the door before entering loudly.

“ _Raine_!” Will exclaims, looking vaguely guilty.  She sort of feels sorry for him and his absolute inability to properly lie.  “ _Where’s Ara_?”

Raine collapses back into the chair before looking up to respond.  “Busy,” she says for Jesse’s benefit, and then elaborates wordlessly for Will’s benefit – one-handed gun shape pointing at her head and a weird expression is all she needs before realisation seems to dawn.

“ _Alright_ ,” Jesse says.  It’s hard to tell through the static but she thinks he might possibly be disappointed.

Again, hard to tell.

“Anyway,” she says, “no offence but um, how are you alive?”

“ _My dazzling wit and stunning complexion_ ,” is the reply.

“Ahahahahaha.  Really?”

“ _I was in Germany_ ,” Jesse says, slightly more seriously.  “ _Somehow managed to survive that till winter.  There were about ten of us.  By the end of the next summer, there were five of us left._ ”

Raine forgets, she thinks.  She forgets that she’s had it so easy.  “I’m sorry,” she says.  For some reason, what he’s telling her reminds her of Ara dragging Tristan in, a million times skinnier than she remembered and somehow, thankfully, alive.

“ _Ah, well.  So it goes.  In any case, I’m sure you can understand why we want to cross soon.  As exciting as this zombie apocalypse thing has been_.”

“Fair enough,” Raine says awkwardly.  She had questions she wanted to ask – what they’d done to survive, how he’s been, what the other people are like – but it suddenly feels stupid and trivial and weirdly First World Problem-esque.

“ _Well_ ,” Will finally drawls when Raine remains silent, “ _we’ll_ -“

He’s cut off, all of a sudden, by the sound of shouting; incoherent syllables, some of which sound tantalisingly familiar but not familiar enough to be English.

German, they must be – it’s coming from Jesse’s side.

And sure enough – “ _Shit, zombies_ ,” Jesse hisses.  “ _We’ll re-establish contact when we’re safe._ ”

Before either Raine or Will can say anything more, the sound of static fills the air.

 

~

 

**_6 th April 2018, Vancouver (Canada), 07:00 AEST (14:00, 5th April, local time) – Bree_ **

Bree’s lying on the top bunk bed in someone’s room (not her own, she’s not going there when Dianna’s there).  The covers are stripped back and the air is freezing in here; but she won’t pull them on top of her.

Someone opens the door, quietly as though to avoid her notice.  She hears it anyway, because everything is so silent in here that it would be impossible not to hear even the slightest bit of sound.

Whoever it is, they hesitate for a good, long moment before approaching.

“Hey, Bree, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” she replies listlessly.  It’s Tracey who’s asking this time, but she has the same answer as always.

 _Fine_.

“…Really?”

 _No_.

“Yeah.  Everything’s fine.”

Tracey exhales, a soft sound that nevertheless resonates around the room.  “Okay,” she says, and it’s obvious she doesn’t believe Bree but doesn’t care enough to push it.  “Just letting you know that you have a call.”

From the corner of her eye, Bree sees a slender hand drop her iPhone on the edge of the mattress, just next to her.

Without another word, Tracey leaves her alone.  For a moment, Bree entertains the idea of simply dashing the phone to the floor; of hearing it break, and releasing her to be alone once more with her guilt.

But even as she reaches for it, she can’t help remembering the last conversation she had with Dianna, three days ago.

_“It’s over,” Dianna says quietly as they’re lying in bed together._

_Bree nods dully, the movement brushing her head against Dianna’s clavicle.  “Okay,” she replies.  There’s not much else to say._

_Dianna pulls away slightly, grasping Bree’s chin lightly and tilting it upwards._

_“It’s not about what happened,’ she tells Bree firmly.  Bree doesn’t believe her, but nods anyway.  “It’s not.  It’s about the guilt, and the fact that you-“ She breaks off, shaking her head.  “I love you, Bree.  But you need to get over this, and I can’t help you do that.  You made a mistake.  We all do.  But you need to get over this.”_

_You need to get over this._

She reaches out and takes the phone; whoever the caller is, they’re on hold.

“Hello?”

“ _Hey, Bree_.”

It’s Kate, and somehow she’s not surprised – she’s been expecting this, because if she were in Kate’s position she wouldn’t be able to resist calling, either.  She wants to hang up, but _you need to get over this_ rings in her ears again, endless.

“What do you want,” she asks flatly.

There’s a sigh on the other end of the phone, and it’s so familiar she wants to cry.  “ _You’re angry at me, aren’t you_?”  It’s so _not_ an actual question, it’s almost hilarious enough to force away the oncoming tears.

“What do _you_ think?”

“ _I’m sorry I hurt you, Bree.  But I had to do it._ ”

“No, you didn’t.”

“ _I don’t want to die_ ,” Kate says simply.

Bree stays silent.

_“I’m just calling to say that the government wants me to go back to Australia for some reason.”_

Memories flicker through Bree’s head – a zombie friend of Ara’s who helped them in some way.  _You could have helped_ dances on her tongue – but dies, unsaid.

_I don’t want to die._

She made her choice, and perhaps the worst part is that Bree can’t blame her.  Can’t hate her.  Could never hate her, because this is Kate.

“Alright,” is her reply. 

 _“I’m sorry_ ,” Kate repeats one last time.

Bree realises, five minutes after the dial tone dies away, that it’s probably the last thing she’s ever going to hear Kate say to her.

 

~

 

**_6 th April 2018, the Netherlands, 16:00 AEST (08:00 local time) - Tristan_ **

They’re eating breakfast when Ara finally comes in from hunting, sweaty but with an air of triumph in  
the way she moves.  Tristan’s actually sitting facing the door (coffee in hand); and so he sees the way her face completely blanks out when Raine runs up to her and says those three words.

“ _Ara, Jesse’s alive_.”

He didn’t necessarily expect joy; it’s something he hasn’t seen since he got here, even if it seems to have been what Lia and Raine were expecting.  Tom went with relief and shock.  Tom agreed with shock, but not necessarily relief.  He still remembers that moment when he was saved, though it’s been a good year and a half since that time.  He still remembers how it felt to be disoriented and confused, and maybe even a little resentful.

There’s none of that on Ara’s face.  Just blankness.

“Uh, dude…did you hear what I said?” Raine asks, excitement in her voice edging over with confusion.

Ara looks at her and nods, slowly.  “Yeah,” she says quietly.  “Yeah, I did.”

She brushes past Raine and stops at the table to grab a piece of toast off of Lia’s plate.  Uncharacteristically, Lia doesn’t say anything; just looks at Ara with concern.

That’s when Tristan realises, with a surge of pity, that she actually expected Ara to be happy about this.  Because, and he doesn’t know why, he thought it should have been obvious to anyone that she wouldn’t be.

And sure enough-

“Is that it?”

Tristan shoots a _look_ Lia’s way, but she doesn’t appear to see it.  Tom, being the wonderful, perceptive man he is, sees it; but just shrugs helplessly in Tristan’s direction.  _Let it happen_ , he mouths. 

“Is what it?” Ara asks mildly, looking over her shoulder.

And for a moment, it looks like it’s going to be one of the worse ones.  They’re doing the whole _let’s-stare-intensely-at-each-other_ thing, and he’s seen them fight before but there’s a certain tension in the air that feels like it’s just itching to burst…

…And this is _stupid_.  “Of course she heard you,” Tristan says as he gets up from his seat and approaches Ara.  “Didn’t you?”

She blinks, as though coming out of some sort of daze.  “Yeah,” she says quietly.  “Yeah.”  With that, she turns and walks away. 

Tristan, because he is suicidal and clearly overly-invested in his friends, follows her down the corridor.  “Ara, wait.”

Surprisingly, she does.  Even more surprisingly, she actually turns around (even if it’s slow and reluctant) to face him.  “What?”

“Aren’t you happy?” Tristan asks.  He doesn’t mean for it to sound accusing, and he doesn’t actually think it does; but either way, Ara flinches away like he’s hit her or something. 

(Actually, knowing Ara, she’d probably react rather differently if he _did_ hit her.)

“You aren’t, are you?” he continues, brushing away that vaguely disturbing, if somewhat amusing thought.   She’s looking up at him from under her eyelashes, the way she used to do when she wanted something from him but couldn’t be bothered to actually convince him. 

“I…” She swallows.  “I don’t, I don’t – it’s just – I don’t know-“

“Ara!”

It’s Tom who runs into the room, voice alarmed and loud.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice is cold and professional again, like that never happened. 

“Fiona called.  Alyce was talking to her, and something happened – she thinks she’s been arrested again.”

“Why-“

“Apparently Alice – Antarctica Alice, Alice with a ‘y’ – told her the antidote to the toxin.”

 _Oh, great_.  Tristan looks at Ara, fully prepared for a massive breakdown of some kind – but she merely looks confused.  Even a little disoriented.  “Okay,” she says slowly.  “Okay.”

“Are you alright?” Tristan asks, moving to place a hand on her shoulder.

She moves away again, though a little less violently this time.  “I’m fine,” she mutters.  “What’s this about Alyce?”

 

~

 

**_6 th April 2018, Sydney (Australia), 17:00 AEST – Kate_ **

Kate never met Alyce before it happened, but she vaguely remembers seeing her tagged in things that appeared on Ara’s Facebook.  The name is vaguely familiar.

This does not make it any less awkward when she’s shown into Alyce’s prison cell with strict instructions to get as much relevant information as she can from her. 

“Um.  Hi,” she says tentatively to the girl lying on a bare mattress.  It’s cold in here – not cold enough to really affect her.  But as Alyce struggles to sit up, she realises that it’s deliberate – probably to keep her from being able to move properly.  Or defend herself.

Kate wonders if she’s been tortured or something, and then decides that she doesn’t really want to know.  She’s already got that last phone call with Bree playing over and over in her head like a really annoying but strangely addictive song to keep the guilt going.

“Uh…who are you?” The other girl’s voice is hoarse and cracking, either from sleep or from the cold. 

“My name’s Kate,” Kate replies.  It feels weird to say that – too formal.  “I’m Kate,” she tries again. 

Alyce looks at her for a long moment.  “…Right,” she says finally, sounding far too dubious.  “Why are you here?”

“I…You know Ara, don’t you?”

“You want me to tell you things,” she says flatly.

Kate shrugs.  “I want you to help me save us.”  The words ring stupid to her.  Stupid and weird and illogical.  “Someone must have told you _something_.”  _Something_ , because Kate doesn’t want to die.  Stupid and weird and illogical – but it’s not fair, it’s not fair that she spent so much time missing Bree, missing everyone, and all this time that’s what they’ve been doing.

“Dude.  Are you trying to interrogate me or something?”

That’s an even more stupid thought.  Kate is twenty four years old.  She’s an actor and a musician.  She’s not a…whatever. 

She doesn’t know what she’s doing here, she realises all of a sudden.

 _I don’t want to die_.

“I don’t want to die.”  The words seem to form themselves without her – but they ring out in her alto voice, from her mouth, like something’s possessed her to speak.

Alyce shrugs.  “Yeah, neither.  Like, I’m not _that_ squeamish, but dying doesn’t sound like fun.”

“Yeah,” Kate agrees.  “Yeah.”  And she wonders, perhaps, if maybe it’s deliberate that they’ve kept this room cold but haven’t tortured Alyce for information.  Maybe it’s the whole _let’s be humane and nice_ thing.

What is she doing here?

Maybe they’ve given up – the Australian government, all of them.  Maybe they want it to be over.

 _I don’t want to die_ , Kate thinks and her hand, still caught in her hair, clenches.  _But perhaps everyone else does._ “Yeah,” she says again.

“It’s going to be over soon,” Alyce says, too cheerfully.  “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

She feels stupid and helpless.  Feels like she could have not hurt Bree because what did it do, in the end?

There’s a knock on the door, sudden and too loud in the silence.  Alyce’s gaze flickers to her.  “I’ll go see who it is,” Kate says, though it makes no sense that she should have to explain herself.

“Okay,” is Alyce’s reply, softly.

The door opens slowly, heavy and somehow very old.  Vaguely, Kate wonders why they’ve put Alyce here – a place that looks like a prison cell out of an American TV show.

 _Supernatural_ , or something.

It’s the woman who greeted Kate at the airport, whose name she can’t remember at all.  “Close the door,” the woman says, pulling her suit jacket more tightly around her – to guard against the cold, probably.  Kate does as she’s told, silently.

“What has she told you?”

“Nothing,” Kate says truthfully.  “Sorry,” she adds, and she’s not sure how much truth is in that.

The woman smiles, cool and distant.  “Not to worry,” she says calmly.  “You’ve served your purpose.  If you’ll wait here, someone will come to escort you back to the airport.”

Kate frowns.  “What do you mean?” she asks as the woman turns away from her and begins to walk away, back up the corridor.  “What do you mean, purpose?”

“Oh.”  The woman turns to face her, a sort of unemotional pity on her face as she looks at Kate.  “Did you honestly think we’d need you to… _interrogate_ …Miss Yu?  We suspected the existence of a poison for a month before you confirmed it for us.”

Nothing’s making sense to Kate, and she wonders if being in that cold room has somehow sapped her of her brain speed or something.  “What do you mean?”

“This was a distraction, Kate.  Arresting Miss Yu, all of this.”

“A distraction for what?”

The woman smiles at her.  “Remember that they tried to destroy us first, Kate.  It’s not your fault.  It’s theirs.”

She’s walking away, around the corner before Kate can say anything else; before she can even think anything else through the dull shock spreading like squid ink through her brain. 

Once she can, though, she’s calling Bree with trembling fingers.

Bree picks up, and it’s the best thing ever.  “ _What do-_ “

“It’s a trap,” she says breathlessly, “the toxin poison whatever thing in Antarctica.  It’s not going to kill us, it’s going to kill _you_.”

There’s a pause, long and tense and filled with static as Kate struggles with the handle of Alyce’s cell, getting it open just as Bree replies.

“ _I’ll call Lia.  She’ll call someone, do something about it._ ” Alyce looks up at the sound, because being a zombie can occasionally be fairly awesome.

“ _Thank_ you,” Kate breathes.  “I’m sorry, Bree, I’m really-“

“ _Kate, seriously.  Don’t._ ”

And Kate remembers, suddenly, that it’s not all okay with them.  It’s not she and Bree in New York, taking on the world together.  “Right.  Yep.”

“Thank _you, Kate_.”

And then there’s static as Alyce and Kate look at each other.

“Well.”

“So.”

 

~

**_7 th April 2018, United Nations Research Facility (Antarctica), 20:30 AEST (18:30 local time) - Alice_ **

Alice wakes up from her regular late afternoon nap to the smell of smoke clogging the air.

 _This is probably not good_ , she thinks, right before Ayesha runs panting into the room.  “Something’s happening!” the older girl shouts, voice edging high with hysteria.

 _Really?_ – that’s the first reply that pops into her head, just a little sarcastic.  She quashes it with ease.  “What?” she asks instead, clambering from the bed and slipping her feet into her boots. 

As she fumbles with her laces, she hears the sound of her drawers opening.  “What are you doing?”

“Packing,” answers Ayesha, short and curt.  The highly identifiable sound of clothes being thrown into a bag gets Alice’s attention, but she makes sure she’s got her shoes done up properly before rising and turning towards her friend. 

“Why?”

“Because we might want to think about hiding.”  With that, Ayesha walks out of the room.  More than a little confused, Alice follows her – out and down the corridor.  The smoke is thicker here, or at least the scent is. 

“Uh, dude, what’s happening?” Ayesha’s walking too quickly, especially when she towers above Alice – and she has to run to keep up, with absolutely no idea of where they’re actually going.  “Ayesha.  Dude!”

“In here!” Ayesha snaps instead of replying.

“What, the stairwell- _ouch_!”

Yes, the stairwell, apparently.  Because suddenly they’re in it, the smell of the smoke abruptly  cut off. 

As Alice stares in slightly annoyed confusion, Ayesha leans back against the door and inhales heavily.

“Uh-“

“I told them that you told Alyce about the antidote,” Ayesha says quietly.  “I’m sorry, Alice, but I had to.”

 _Oops_.  “Right.” 

“Sorry,” Ayesha says again.

The thing is, she can’t really blame Ayesha for it.  Self-preservation.  _Yeah_.  “Okay,” Alice says slowly, “…um, how am I not like, lynched or something?  Supporting the enemy!  Treason!”  She sounds vaguely manic, she thinks. 

Ayesha shakes her head.  “They wouldn’t – they…”  She pales.  “Oh.  I – didn’t – I didn’t think-“

“ _Dude_ ,” Alice says hastily, reaching up to grasp Ayesha’s shoulder as roughly as she can while catering to her persistent paranoia about actually causing actual pain.  “It’s fine.  What happened?”

Ayesha closes her eyes and inhales deeply.  Then exhales.  Lather, rinse, repeat ( _yay, English, eww_ ) and then – “The news got out pretty quickly.  A group of workers tried to break in and release the toxin early,” Ayesha says quietly.  “And then a couple of sympathisers tried to contaminate t, make it useless.  It’s…not good right now.”

“ _Shit_.”  She’d worried about this, to be honest – but hadn’t really thought it would happen now.  “There can’t be that many-“

“About a quarter,” is Ayesha’s response.

Uh.  “Seriously?”

“No, I thought this would be a good joke.”

“ _Hey_.”

“Yes.  It’s not good, Alice.  It’s really bad.”

“Bad, how?”

“The toxin’s going out tonight is what I mean, and I don’t know if it’s going to kill them or us.”

 

~

 

**_7 th April 2018, Nord-Pas-du-Calais (France), 21:00 AEST (13:00 local time) - Jesse_ **

Jesse sighs as Elena turns to him, shrugging her shoulders helplessly.  _I’m done_ , she says silently.  _You’re on your own_.

“It must be tonight,” the captain replies stubbornly.

With what he thinks must be an act of supreme restraint, Jesse _doesn’t_ punch the man in the face.  “We can’t,” he repeats, deliberately slowly and enunciating every part of every syllable.  “We’ve got to wait for two more days.”

“It must be tonight.”

“ _Pourquoi_?”

“The _temps_.  Tomorrow, it will be too warm.  Summer comes,” the man explains in halting English.

For some absurd but undeniably obvious reason, Jesse thinks of season 1 of _Game of Thrones._

 _Winter is coming_.

If only.

 _We’re not going to have to worry about that_ is on the tip of his tongue, but – _scheisse_ , that British guy warned him not to say anything.  _Just in case it doesn’t work_ , Raine’s friend had said.  _Just in case_.

“Are you _sure_ tonight will be fine?” is what he settles for, with a heavy sigh.

“ _Pas d’orages, froid mais pas si froid qu’il y aurait des problèmes de – oui_. Yes.”

“Alright.”

 _What could possibly go wrong?_  Jesse thinks with, as it turns out later, a certain amount of irony.

 

~

 

**_7 th April 2018, London (England) 22:00 AEST (13:00 local time) - Andrew_ **

Andrew knows that something has gone terribly wrong the minute Fiona barges into his office with Jared in tow, ashen-faced and sweating all at once.  “What’s happened-“

“Antarctica,” Jared answers shortly.  “Is Will here?”

Wordlessly, Andrew gets up from his chair and opens the door to Will’s office, ushering the both of them in before closing the door behind him. 

His superior has his head burrowed in his arms, spine curved in what Andrew can’t help but consider an ergonomically unsound position.  Sleeping, Andrew realises quickly enough.  It’s tempting to let the man simply sleep – with all the stress of the past week, and not even the release of his relationship with Raine, Will is starting to look older than Andrew is. 

But he can’t.  And so:

“Will,” he murmurs, skirting around the desk to lean close to the sleeping man.  “Will, you need to wake up,” he repeats gently, this time punctuating his words with a hand on Will’s shoulder.

“Bleurgh-argh-wha-whazza?” 

Andrew hides his smile with difficulty, only really properly succeeding when he sees the exhausted frustration on Fiona’s face.  “Will, something’s happening in Antarctica.”

Scrubbing at his face, Will sits up.  There are bags under his eyes and too many lines of exhaustion on his face, but he’s alert surprisingly quickly.  “What is it?”

“A riot, apparently,” Jared says.

He sounds serious, but Andrew still glances up at his face anyway.  There’s no humour there.

“And not just that,” the singer adds.  “Lia called.  Apparently the poison thing – _really_ , guys?  Really? – is a bit of a, well, problem.”

“How bad?” Will asks, weariness etched into his voice.

This time, it’s Fiona who answers.  She isn’t sweating anymore; now, she’s just deathly pale.  “Bad.”

 

~

 

**_7 th April 2018, Sydney (Australia), 23:59 AEST – Alyce_ **

Kate doesn’t leave the room, though Alyce expects her to.

“What are you going to do now?” Alyce finally asks, more for lack of anything else to say.

The other girl shrugs.  “I haven’t been back to Australia in three years…I’m not really sure of what I’d do.”

“Do you have any family?”  That comes out slightly wrong, but she can’t really bring herself to kick herself for it.

Kate’s got her hair swept over her shoulder.  As Alyce asks that question, she begins to twirl it around her hand, with what Alyce thinks might be nervousness. 

For a long moment, Alyce doesn’t think she’s going to reply.  But eventually –

“They’re all dead.”

“Same,” Alyce replies.

Kate nods.  “Sorry.”

“Yeah, you too.”

They fall into silence again.  All the humans dead, unless they do something in time – or, if Kate’s information was seriously screwed up, then all the zombies gone.  For all she knows, they’re all going to die; everyone in Australia who’s changed.  At least fourteen million of them.  And she could save some (not all, there’s no way more than maybe a quarter could get the ingredients they’d need.) 

 _You were meant to die.   All of you_.

Ara said that to Alyce once, over the phone.  Alyce hung up on her, but the words are still echoing in her head.

 _You were meant to die_.

“Hey, uh, Kate.  Would I be able to borrow your phone?”

 

~

 

**_8 th April 2018, United Nations Research Facility, 00:20 AEST (7th April, 23:20 local time) – Alice_ **

There’s fire licking through the main hall of the building.  As they watch from the stairwell – where they’ve been for the past five hours, silently witnessing the damage unfold – they turn to look at each other.

“We need to get out of here,” Ayesha repeats, and Alice isn’t about to disagree. 

“How?”

“Up the stairs,” she orders.  Alice follows without complaint, till they exit on the third floor – ground level.  “We thought this was going to happen,” Ayesha explains as they half-stride, half-run (most of the running happens on Alice’s part.)  “Me and a couple of the others.  There’s a small plane waiting outside – has enough fuel to get us to England, apparently.”

“Really?”

“Hopefully.”

The cold hits Alice hard.  She blames her height.  In any case, she pauses for a good moment before Ayesha obviously notices she’s not continued, turns around and scowls.  “Hurry up!” she shouts against the wind.

“It’s _cold_!” is Alice’s reply, but she’s fairly sure the other girl doesn’t even hear her.  Ayesha waits till Alice is as close as a few metres before turning and stomping through the snow towards the runway; leaving Alice with nothing to do but follow, already exhausted.

 

**_~_ **

**_8 th April 2018, the Netherlands, 00:30 AEST (7th April, 16:30 local time) – Tom_ **

Tom’s the one who picks up the call, walks the short distance to Ara’s room and knocks.  “Are you there?” he calls out, though he knows perfectly well that she is indeed in her room.

She doesn’t reply, and so he opens the door anyway.

“Go away,” Ara mutters.  She’s curled up on her bed, head buried in the pillow and back curved. 

Tom closes the door behind him; not loudly, but with enough volume that she finally raises her head and looks up at him.  “No,” he says calmly.  “Alyce is on the phone.”

“I thought there was a fucking riot going on,” she grumbles.  “Trust her to have time to fucking _call_ -“

“Not Alice, Ara.  _Alyce_.  Australia.”

“Oh.”  Her face loses some of its petulance as she rises from the bed and reaches out a hand.  “Sorry,” she mumbles with obvious reluctance as she takes the phone and puts it on speaker, tossing it onto the bed before flopping back down again.  “Hey Alyce,” she says, arching her back as she stares at the ceiling.  “What’s up?”

“ _Hey, woman._ ”

Tom picks up the _wrongness_ before Ara does, he thinks; he’s already wide-eyed with alarm when Alyce says roughly, “ _I think I’m kind of dying_.”

Ara jerks upright as Tom leans against the wall. 

He’s relieved, despite himself.  He can’t help it.  He can’t help it that he wants to live; that he wants to see his home again, that he wants Lia to be able to go back to Australia.

But that doesn’t stem the sorrow; that Alyce has to die.

 _I’m sorry –_ it’s on the tip of his tongue, when-

“I’m sorry,” Ara says quietly.  “We shouldn’t have expected you to do anything.”

“ _Hey, woman, I’m the one who called in the beginning, remember?  My choice, not yours._ ”  They hear her cough, suddenly – and then for a long time, racking and painful.

“You don’t need to speak,” Tom says.

“ _Oh hey – Loki, right?_ ”

He smiles, despite himself.  “Sure.”

“ _Might as well speak now – not much of a chance when I’m_ -“  Alyce bites off her own words as Ara bites into her lip, leaving blood dribbling down her chin.

Tom offers her his handkerchief, but she ignores him – perhaps she doesn’t even see the gesture, because she’s staring at the phone like if she looks hard enough, she can see Alyce through it.

“ _You know what I’m going to miss_?”

Ara inhales heavily; seems to choke on the breath, silent and desperate, and then fade into nothingness.  So Tom speaks for her, as kindly as he can.  “What are you going to miss, Alyce?”

“ _Doctor Who.  And Broadchurch.  And David Tenn-“_

Her voice dies off suddenly with a horrifying gurgle and a cough, liquid and disgusting. 

“Alyce?”  Ara’s voice is sharp and harsh.  Tom reaches for her shoulder.  She doesn’t stop him but he can feel her trembling under his touch, constant and terrifying.  “Alyce, are you-“

“ _She’s dead_ ,” another voice sighs.  “ _I’m sorry, she’s dead.  I’m Kate, by the way.  She’s dead._ ”

 _And I’m next_ goes unsaid.

“Are you alright?”  Tom doesn’t know what else to say, and what he does say comes out callous to his ears.

But Kate laughs, sandpaper-rough.  “ _Apart from the dying thing, yeah!_ ”  The laughter in her voice dies away quickly enough, and they fall into silence.  Tom can see Ara’s fingers twitching, as though she wants to hang up but can’t quite bring herself to do so.

“ _I sort of hoped it wasn’t going to be us_.”

“That’s not wrong,” Tom says, as gently as he can.  “That’s completely normal.  You didn’t have to do what you did.”

“ _Sure I did.  It’s not like I have anyone left except Bree, anyway_ ,” is her cracked reply with another rough laugh.

“ _Can you_ -“ Kate says suddenly, “ _can you – can you stay – can you just…_ ”

“Of course.”

They both say it at the same time, quietly.

 

**_~_ **

****

**_8 th April 2018, United Nations Research Facility, 01:15 AEST (7th April, 23:15 local time) – Alice_ **

Alice is concentrating on the buckle on her seat.  It’s annoyingly complicated and…buckley.  Also, belty.  There are random bits of _belt_ that really just remind her that she’s not exactly the most average sized person on the planet.

“Raine called,” Ayesha says from a few metres away where she’s talking to the pilot.  “Apparently Alyce is dead.”

There’s a sinking feeling in her stomach; and it’s even more annoying because part of it is relief.  She wasn’t exactly looking forward to dying, she has to admit.

But it’s all over now, all of it.  “Eurgh,” she sighs.

Ayesha doesn’t reply, and Alice doesn’t really blame her, because there’s not much to say to _eurgh_.  So she gets back to the buckle, struggling and struggling till finally –

 _Click_!

Triumph.  Yes.  Awesome.

Which is perhaps why she needs the pilot’s cry of horror to alert her to the fact that something’s not right.  “What’s wrong?” she asks urgently, swivelling in the seat – but she can’t see anything.

“ _Hurts_.”

That’s Ayesha, but barely recognisable because her voice is harsh and pained. 

 _Shit_.  Alice struggles with the buckle – and it’s harder to take off than it was to put off, or it feels that way, but she gets there and she’s staggering out of the seat to her friend’s side.

 “Ayesha?  _Ayesha_?”

“Something…”  Ayesha coughs, harsh and hacking.  There’s blood flecking her lips.  “Wrong.  Something…”

“Shut up,” Alice cuts her off quickly, tilting her head up to look at the pilot.  “Water.  Get water.”

He nods and runs off, leaving the two of them alone.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” Ayesha manages to get out.  “Shouldn’t-“

“Shut up,” Alice repeats.  “You don’t know it’s a thing.  It’s not – just shut up, alright?  You’re going to be-“

“Look.  Outside.  Window.”

“Ayesha-“

“ _Alice_!”

She knows she shouldn’t leave Ayesha’s side.  But her friend’s gaze burns into her, inexorable, and so she rises reluctantly and goes to the window of the plane, looking outside at the people milling around outside the complex.

At the good third who are suddenly collapsing to the ground, hands clutching at their throats as people crowd around them.

“Something’s wrong,” Alice breathes, and for the first time in her life she thinks she knows what horror feels like.

 _Something’s gone wrong_.

The pilot runs in with a bottle of water in his hand and panic in his eyes.  “We need to leave now,” he says urgently.  “Sit down!”

“But-“

Alice turns to see Ayesha gazing sightlessly at the ceiling of the plane.

Her chest isn’t moving.

“ _Now_!”

 _Something’s wrong_ , she thinks, numb and quiet as she buckles herself into the seat while the pilot drags Ayesha’s body outside.

 _Something’s wrong_.

 

~

****

**_8 th April 2018, Vancouver (Canada), 02:05 AEST (7th April, 09:05 local time) – Tracey_ **

Andrew is already dying when Tracey picks up the phone.

“ _I’m dying_ ,” he says before she’s had time to say _hello_.  “ _I’m sorry_.”

“Funny joke, “she replies as she stretches.  It’s just past 9 in the morning and so it’s not actually that early, but she’s _tired_ for some reason.

“ _I’m not joking, Tracey_.”

“Yeah, sure-“

“ _Tracey_.”

She freezes.

“ _I love you.  I just wanted to say that.  I-“_   He falls silent.

“Andrew?’  She whispers at first, because it’s too much and it’s 9 in the morning and it’s too early and she doesn’t understand, she doesn’t – “Andrew?” – a little louder – “ _Andrew_?”

 

~

 

**_7 th April 2018, the English Channel, 02:20 AEST (7th April, 18:20) – Jesse_ **

They set out about an hour before it all goes to hell.

 _They_ is a fairly small group.  There’s Jesse and three of his male colleagues, as well as Elena, a tourist from New Zealand.  They’re all that’s left from the group Jesse ended up in when everything went fucking crazy in 2016. 

He knows the French a lot less; three young women and seven men ranging in age from fifteen to fifty.  The boat people ( _people-who-know-how-to-use-boats_ , not fucking asylum seekers) consist of one of Jesse’s colleagues and four of the French.

Without them, they’re just ten people on a pile of metal, with non-potable water all around them.

Which is sort of an issue, when it goes to hell. 

The first clue that something’s really fucked up well and good comes when the captain drops to the floor with his hands raised to his throat, clutching as he gurgles incoherent sounds. 

Or at least, this is what Jesse gathers from the rather muddled, panicked French being yelled at him by one of the Calais men he barely knows.  Why they’re coming to _him_ – he’s not the greatest at French but _journaliste_ wasn’t too tricky - he doesn’t actually know.  

But Jesse being Jesse, he drops to his knees and gets the guy’s pulse, rests his head against the man’s forehead.

He’s burning up, and if his heartbeat’s any higher he’s going to actually explode.

“He’s dying,” is Jesse’s professional opinion, much to the dismay of four people standing around. 

“ _Mais c’est pas – il lui faut pour_ -“

“Jesse!”

As Jesse turns his head to the door, one of the men Jesse travelled with from Germany – Jon – runs in, face pale with fear.  “The person who knows the boat – he is dead!”

 _Syntax_ , he notes absent-mindedly.  “Alex?” he demands.  Right on cue, there’s a horrifying scream from outside, abruptly silenced with a splash. 

“And another one barely awake,” Elena adds from behind.  “I don’t understand what-”

Almost seamlessly, her speech stops and she collapses to the floor.  It’s ridiculously fluid and the dramatic timing is brilliant.

Except – _fuck_.

“ _Elena_?”  He kneels at her side, turns her over. 

Her eyes are glazed over, fearful and panicked.  “What’s…” She blinks rapidly; once, twice, thrice, in a flutter of eyelashes.  “I’m scared,” she whispers.

She’s dying, Jesse knows with a sickening certainty – sickening because he knows what’s wrong and he can’t do anything about it.  Can’t.  “It’s going to be alright,” he lies with a stab of guilt.  “You’re going to be alright, Elena.”  He places a finger on each of her eyelids, pressing them closed as gently as he can.  “You’re going to go to sleep, and when you wake up, you’ll be alright.” 

He leans forwards and presses a soft kiss against her forehead.

She’s dead, with a shuddering breath that racks her whole body, by the time Jesse’s pulled back.

He grits his teeth as he looks down at her corpse.  _What could possibly go wrong?_  

Why the _fuck_ did he think that, really?  Why?

“Jesse…”

He wants to ignore everything for just one moment; wants tofeel _hopeless_ and _helpless_ , let the despair sink deep into him and anchor itself around his bones, twine into his bloodstream and rip him apart-

But that’s Jon’s voice.

That’s Jon’s voice, scared and quavering – and when Jesse turns around, it’s to see the survivors standing in a circle around him.

Silent.

Waiting.

He’s stuck on a boat and with no idea of what to do.  And everyone else is looking to him for answers.  They’re somewhere in the middle of the English Channel, somewhere.

And…

Oh –

 _Fuck it._ He lunges to his feet and heads for the…front bit of the boat. 

 _This is going to go- oh,_ shut _up_.

“We have to do it ourselves,” he says loudly without looking behind him.  “It’s not that hard.”

“You have much experience sailing?” Jon asks hopefully. 

 _Idiot_ , Jesse thinks, but it’s a half-hearted thought.  He can still feel Elena’s last breath, cold and harsh against his neck.

“None at all,” Jesse says casually, and then looks behind him with a humourless smile flashing across his face.  “But I’m a fast learner.”

 

~

 

**_7 th April 2018, the Netherlands, 02:45 AEST (18:45 local time) – Lia_ **

Lia’s sitting on the table, legs swinging aimlessly, when Tristan walks out of the kitchen, a mug in each of his hands.  One is her familiar one, a _World’s Greatest Grandad_ one that she thought was hilarious because it reminded her of Death from _Discworld_.

It’s stupid, but thinking about _Discworld_ makes her feel better.  There’s too much death around and too little anything else.  The idea that there’s a Reaper on the other end, speaking in capital letters, is nice.

Comforting.

“Here you go,” Tristan says with that stupid semi-British cheer in his voice. 

She smiles despite herself. “Thank you, dear,” she says, taking the mug from his hands.  Even though it’s getting warmer here, the heat of the mug still feels good against her skin. 

It feels so good that she doesn’t feel the burn of hot liquid against her face till a couple of seconds later.

“ _Fuck_!” she screams.  Her mug goes flying into the wall, and she’s scrambling off the table and scrubbing frantically at her face – but not just her face, because it’s all over her clothes, burning through the fabric to simmer at her skin. 

It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_ – and so it takes her too long, far too long to look down and see the other mug – Tristan’s – lying on the floor in pieces.

“Tristan?”

She doesn’t move her eyes from the mug, just keeps rubbing away the pain as she waits for an answer.

There’s nothing.

“Tristan?”

Slowly, torturously, she forces her gaze away from the mug and forward, forward. 

He’s lying on the floor, collapsed in a sprawl of bony limbs.  It’s the first time in ages that Lia’s really properly looked at him, really looked at him.  Two years – two years he survived, all alone, and she doesn’t know how. 

Because Tristan is long and bony and somehow so small.

And he’s not breathing.

“ _Tristan_!”

**Author's Note:**

> Just the epilogue left!


End file.
